I Swear to GOD He Was Blonde!
by RosemaryBagels
Summary: It's a world meeting, and France was, well, shocked to be honest. He never expected this. I'd love to say that it's funny, but in fact it ended up sweet and touching. Fail!Humour in action!


**A/N: An old thing that I had forgotten about, recently dug out, and a good friend told me to post. This occured simply as a what if senario, but I got caught up in Englands motives... but whatever. I don't think highly of it, but it's nice enough.**

**I don't own Hetalia.**

**Mistakes are my fault, but do not blame me!**

There were many things France was unsure about. Like whether America actually thought giant robot ninjas could actually stop world poverty, or if he was suggesting it just for laughs. Or why Belarus thought she could get Russia to lover her by threatening him at knife point. Or why China was complaining about the decorum, mon dieu they were in Poland what do you expect? Did Russia really not notice that he was sitting on Canada? Did anyone besides him even notice Canada? He'd once spent an entire meeting trying to determine if Austria and Hungary had actually slept together, and if so were their pictures, and would someone make Germany and Italy kiss already, and who the fuck invited Sealand anyway?

The list goes on.

However one of the things of which he was definitively certain, was that England, Great Britain, Angleterre, Arthur Kirkland was DEFINITELY blonde.

So when England walked into the meeting halfway through Poland's opening speech with a, "Sorry I'm late," France did the most logical thing. Which happened to be dropping his notes and pen on the floor with a whisper of "Oh, mon dieu, what did you do?"

Germany had frozen up. Romano had a muscle twitching in his forehead, and Veneziano had his eyes open for once, as if he couldn't believe what he saw. America's phone had fallen to the floor with a clatter and Russia had paused with his vodka halfway to his lips. Hungary was rapidly snapping photos.

The room was deadly silent.

England looked up from his standing position rummaging through his briefcase to meet a fully silent room.

"What?"

Germany recovered his senses first. "If we could just get back to the—"

"Dude, never mind that!" America interrupted, "Iggy's hair is green!"

And so it was. The once blonde locks were now a pale green which, France had to admit, upon looking closer, actually went very well with the overall appearance of the Brit. He still preferred the blonde, but the lime brought out the subtleties in his eyes, and drew attention to his small but strong figure that looked absolutely mouth-watering and, when did he start finding England attractive?

And all of this was thought in the three seconds of silence before the meeting erupted in chaos. America HAD to know when the heck England had done this, and why the hell he didn't tell him. Poland absolutely HAD to know what kind of dye he used, and why he chose the colour, and Hungary was trying to get Arthur to assume poses, while the rest of the table (mostly) made snide remarks.

The nicest of which was, "No wonder America's weird ass alien calls him a fucking limey."

And France too found this highly amusing until about ten seconds after which England grabbed Hungary's camera and threw it at America, who barely dodged, after which it smashed into a wall and crumpled. The resounding clatter caused silence to flood the room once again, although Hungary's muffled whimper could be heard.

"Yes, my fucking hair is fucking green. Could we get back to the bloody meeting now, or do we need another few minutes to act like fucking school children?"

And just like that, France was no longer amused. He'd been laughing with the rest of them, but it was obvious the Brit wasn't in a laughing mood. He stood with his fists clenched and his eyes downturned until everyone had taken their seats before slowly and deliberately walking back to his own.

His eyes met with France's across the room, and France felt his heart drop into his stomach. France dropped his eyes, unable to make contact, and was suddenly glad he'd had a light breakfast. Because that look was one he hadn't seen in a long time. The determination alone could set a house on fire.

And then Poland had to break the sentence with an awkward, "So, like, what do you guys think of the curtains?"

Though the continuation of the meeting stopped the blatant questions, it did, by no means, stop the insults. France kept his eyes on the Brit the entire meeting, who spent most of his time looking at his hands, and watching his reactions as the insults made their way across the table. After the first few he flinched, but after about an hour his expression became hard and unchanging and, if France was being honest with himself, cold and unfriendly. He read his report with the monotonous sound of the uncaring. He had nothing else to contribute to the meeting.

France had nothing to contribute at all.

After the meeting, France watched as England slowly and deliberately packed up his notes, putting up with the teasing remarks Prussia and Spain made at his expense. He said nothing to anyone, even America when he called out. He moved like a robot doing mundane tasks as he exited the room. The only emotion he showed was through his eyes, which looked like he was going to break down into tears at any second, though France suspected he was the only one to see past the vacant expression. He grabbed his things, and silently followed the other nation.

France soon realised that England wasn't leading them outside, but further into the building and then up a flight of stairs. The echo was loud, so France hung back a bit so he wouldn't be found out. The door to the roof swung open to reveal England head in hands, briefcase forgotten, spilling its contents over the cement. He really did look like he was going to cry.

France walked forwards, equally curious and cautious, and opened his mouth to say something, but then England let out a muffled sob. And France stopped where he was. This was a private moment. He shouldn't be there. Sure he had watched Arthur in intimate situations before, he had a specific set of binoculars for that, but this wasn't like watching the Briton shower. And as much as he wanted to comfort him, he knew there was no way that England would accept it, coming from him.

He looked down at the scattered papers. Among the notes in a scrawl that was barely legible, and the large booklets of facts that Germany had passed out, a picture caught his attention. Upon closer inspection he realised it was a printout from a blog titled: _Our Teen Hero._ Underneath was a picture of a girl with long flowing brown hair and sparking green eyes. France's eyes flicked to Arthur, who was trembling slightly but hadn't moved, and then back to the page.

**Mary Hoperon. Deceased: May 25 2008. Her tale is one of strength and defiance. Mostly unknown before her untimely death in a car accident, she was only really known as the life of the party. Put of as a case of drunk driving, a recent case study revealed that she was indeed sober and driving her vehicle and it was the other driver that ran a red. Mary lost her life for his mistake. A recent video found revealed high tensions within her family. She was known for having screaming matches with her Father over the most innocent things, like the dying of hair. She often referred to her time at parties as "gaining independence" and—**

France stopped reading. Things were falling into place.

"England?"

England tensed up as soon as France's voice hit the air.

"What do you want frog?" His voice was dark. "Have you come to tease me like the rest of them?"

"Non." France felt like someone had poured sawdust down his throat. His voice was barely audible as England continued.

"Well you can just fuck off. I don't want any of this, especially coming out of your vile mouth."

"Non, England. That wasn't my intention. I just wanted to ask why."

England let out a dry, humourless chuckle. "You must think I'm an idiot, crying because people at a business meeting didn't like my hair."

"But it's not about that," France's voice was barely a whisper. "It's about America."

England whirled around to face France, and expression of pain flashing across his face, tear streaks down his cheeks.

"How did you…" he trailed off when he saw the document in France's hand. "France, I—" France took two steps forwards, wrapping his arms around the shorter man. England froze for a moment, before accepting the comfort the embrace brought and sobbing into France's shoulder.

"Angleterre, it's okay. You followed this young girl as a role model, and this," he said, running his hand through the now green locks, "was you trying, in your own way, to accept America's choices and move on."

"It's so bloody hard though. I can barely look at him without remembering that day. And everyone else just laughs. And it feels like they're mocking me for even trying."

"Why should it matter what they think?" France pulled back to look England in the eyes. "They don't know your reasons. They shouldn't judge you. The point is that you know what you've done, and what you were trying to do. And in this case, I think trying is enough."

England stared at France with a look of confusion on his face. When had France become so sincere? France found himself gazing back, and getting lost in the endless depths of the green eyes before him. The moment was broken when England let out a soft chuckle.

"We're supposed to be enemies."

"Not always, Angleterre," France reached forwards, and brushed away the tear streaks. England seemed to grow doubtful.

"You're not just using this as a covert way to get into my pants, are you?" At this France had to chuckle.

"Mon amour, you think I can't tell when it is absolutely not a good idea?"

"I guess," England responded, with reluctance.

The wind chose that moment to sweep through, blowing all of England's scattered papers away over the side of the building. The two nations stood there, watching for a moment, before bursting out laughing.

France laughed until his lungs ached with the desire for air. He took a few shaky breaths and looked over at England, who was staring after the papers.

"Oh well. I can't remember a bloody thing that happened in the meeting anyways." This sent them both over the edge, and peals of laughter rang out.

"We should probably go," England said, after he'd caught his breath. "it would be just our luck to be locked in." France tried to deny how much he liked the sound of that. Our.

The two walked down the stairs and through the hallways in companionable silence, England contemplating the unusual and caring actions of the Frenchman, while said Frenchman was filled with the thoughts of how this walk would be so much nicer if only he could hold England's hand. The two exited the building, England's hotel in one direction, France's in another, and it was there they stopped.

"So, I'll see you around then?" England asked, looking like half of him wanted to follow France, and the other half wanted to run screaming. France mentally squared his shoulders. No time like the present.

"Have dinner with me."

"What?" There was no anger in England's voice. Only shock.

"You heard me, cher. I said that you should have dinner with me."

France waited. He waited for England to revert back to whom he normally was, to swear and brush him off. To run off cursing and leave him staring forlornly after. But it never came. What happened was the least expected, and yet the best thing that had ever happened in France's entire life.

"Okay."

Fin.

**A/N: Fun fact: this was supposed to be humour. Guess what I can't write?**


End file.
